Was I Ever Mellow
by eternal second
Summary: An alternative version of Mello's background story. More specifically: what if Mello didn't know what his true name was and only found out when he nearly died in the mafia hideout explosion.
1. The Day I Learnt My Name

**-_-_Was I Ever Mellow_-_-**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **An alternative version of Mello's background story. More specifically: what if Mello _didn't_ _know_ what his true name was and only found out when he nearly died in the mafia hideout explosion. 8 Yaaaah: I mixed things up like crazy in this fanfic. Flashbacks galore (sorry). Not overly proud of this one; it was a very jumbled idea. I'm surprised I managed to even put it into words. But I liked it enough for it to seep into my other stories.

**P.S. **Everything (besides the actual fic and the mixed-up concepts) belongs to Death Note's creators, Ohba and Obata. Credit to them for this masterpiece of an animanga.

* * *

><p><strong>_-Chapter I-_<strong>

**_-The Day I Learnt My Name-_  
><strong>

The day I learnt my name, I nearly died.

The room was made of shadows and static. We faced each other, holding threats over each others' heads. The atmosphere was so tense, I almost died right then. And then, Chief Yagami of the Japanese Police spelled out my doom:

"M-I-H-A-E-L… K-H-E-E-L…"

_No, there's no way._

"Mihael Kheel," Chief Yagami enunciated with finality, in broken English. "You're real name is Mihael Kheel."

_F**k. How? …No, he's bluffing. It can't be…There's no way in hell that's my true name…_is it?

* * *

><p><em><strong>_-_Hours before_-_<strong>_

"The hell are you staring at, Snyder?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, looking away. He'd been staring at the top of my head again. I'd been catching him doing that ever since he made the deal with the shinigami Shidou for those eyes, those eyes that gave him the ability to read our true names and the date of our death floating above our heads, like an inescapable sentence of doom.

Rod forbade him from telling his and my lifespan, out of our deal of my anonymity. Still, I couldn't help but feel a little edgy about all this.

This was the best thing to do, of course, the best course of action. How could we _not _take advantage of the fact that we have a God of Death on our side? When we heard about the deal for the eyes, I had a plan in my head in seconds. Snyder got the short side of the stick, so to speak, and he was understandably hesitant to give up half his lifespan.

He was smart enough to agree in the end, because if he didn't, he might not even have that precious half.

Now, when the deal is done and all we have to do is to wait for the right time to strike, I can't help but wonder what he saw when he looked at me with that sideways glance of his. He must know by now that Mello isn't my real name.

Well, heck. It's not like I lied to them. I said that I go by the name Mello. They knew as well as I did that this wasn't my real name. What _is _my real name, you ask?

Well, your guess is as good as mine.

I don't know what my true name is, what my parents named me, if they did indeed name me and not toss me out nameless and unloved into the streets to live or die alone. No, seriously.

Hold on, wait for a flashback…

* * *

><p>Mr Wammy called it repression, or some sort of dissociative fugue. Whatever it was, when I wound up in Wammy's House, I couldn't remember a thing of my past: didn't know where I came from, who my parents were, or even what my name was. Before Wammy's House discovered me I had been living in a foster home for a month with eight other kids, all found abandoned in ditches and alleyways and on doorsteps. I was one of the children who was found half-frozen at the porch steps, starved and half-insane. I was barely seven then. At the time, I was nameless. For the brief length of time I lived under foster care, I was called "you, little boy."<p>

Wammy's House took me from the foster home and under their care when they heard of my being…'different' from the others, and they gave me a choice of alias. They said that in this institution, a name wasn't needed; in fact it was a setback considering what we were training to become. I chose the alias Near. Hearing of the orphanage's goal to raise up the one who would succeed L, the greatest detective in this world and the next, I was determined to win the title. I chose Near because it meant everything I wanted to be. I had a great respect for L, but I wanted to be _like _him, not him exactly. I wanted to be _near, _the closest you'll ever get to the original. I was too much my own individual, as Mr Wammy said: I couldn't bear to throw away who I was now to be someone else.

But then things went wrong.

There was this new kid. He got the name Mellow, because, well, that was what he was. He was so mellow, so quiet, and damn near colorless. He hardly talked to anyone unless necessary, and was forever tinkering with puzzles and games and toys meant for kids younger than him. I didn't care about him a whit, until he started to beat me in almost everything with seemingly no effort at all on his part, and I was pushed down to painful second place when I had been the top in nearly half a year running. I _hated _him then. Hated him for all I was worth.

In case you haven't already guessed, I'm a pretty sore loser.

Things went wrong again, and if the fact that I was being crushed in my own game by a bland stoic brat years younger than I was wasn't bad enough, I got _his _stupid name in a mix-up.

I blame it on this other kid, Matt. He was one of those smart ones who weren't as enthusiastic about things as the rest of us were, and almost no creativity in choosing an alias. He'd just shrugged and said, "Which name's not taken?" So he got Matt, plain and simple. He was the one who mixed up our names.

One day, just to push the kid off his butt, out of his video games and into the real world, he'd been assigned to register the aliases of all the Wammy House kids in our generation for the official permanent records at the beginning of the new academic year. Why they gave responsibility of such an important job to this bungling gamer is beyond me. By the end of the week, everyone's chosen aliases had either been recorded wrong, got switched with someone else's or, if you were really unlucky, just got a string of numbers and symbols.

I was one of the ones who got our aliases switched with someone else's. And who else did I get switched with but that bigheaded albino twit?

From that day on, while many of us had to learn to live with an alias we didn't want (Matt, on the other hand, spelt his name 'Mat.' Were they _sure _this kid is a genius?), I had my alias switched to Mellow, and that too wasn't even spelt right: the W was dropped off the end, and I had to be known as Mello from then on. Was I happy? Was I hell. My sworn rival got the name I wanted, the name I deserved: Near. If I'd had any foresight back then, or if I'd just been plain superstitious, I would have taken this to be a bad omen of who would win the race to L in the end. Maybe…I knew all along.

I didn't want to believe it, but Mello I was, and he was Near.

Like he didn't have enough already? He was top of the school, forever beating me in anything and everything. No matter how far I went, it was like he was suspended in front of my view. If I took a step forward, he took two in a heartbeat, and L himself expressed his approval of him. What I hated even more was the fact that he, like almost everyone in Wammy's, knew what his real name was. He had a secret to hide, he had memories of his past before Wammy's. And me? I had Mello and nothing else: a mistake. Maybe that's what my life was, nothing but a mistake.

* * *

><p>[<em>To be continued<em>]


	2. Story Behind A Story

**_-Chapter II-_**

**_-Story Behind a Story-_**

"So, you're Russian?" Snyder said.

_Was I? _The question threw me off guard. "What?"

"Where're you from?"

I scowled at him.

There he was, cross-examining me again. Snyder was one of the mafia members who didn't trust me, a distrust fuelled by the fact that they knew nothing about me except that I was capable of brilliant acts and I would do anything to win. He had a reason not to trust me, I guess, but this needless probing of my background was uncalled for.

"What's that got to do with anything?" I muttered under my breath, but my heart had picked up speed.

_He saw my name…He knows my _real_ name…_

Numerous times, I had to resist the urge to jump up and point a gun at his head and order him to read my name out loud, tell me what he saw when he looked at me, but I didn't. I couldn't lose my cool over something as trivial to me as a name.

But a name has more power now, more than ever. It's what Kira needs to kill. I thought I'd be unstoppable when I heard that. He needed a name and a face, and since I was raised to have neither, who could stop me, especially since I didn't even know my true name myself. I had doubts, of course, regarding this. If I truly had no name, would that make my alias my true name and that it can still be used to kill me? I figured the odds were too great.

I gave very little thought to my past. All that mattered was now, winning _now, _and surviving the future. The future; prepare for greatness. That was my life; I never thought this would be important.

"Oh, it's nothing, really. Just asking…" Snyder said with that sly smile of his. He was taunting me; I just knew it. "By the way," he added casually. "Did you know that _Mihael _means _"he who is like god"?"_

I nearly fell off my seat then. "Excuse me?" I said, glaring at him. My head was reeling. It was so sudden. _Is that my name? Mihael? _It sounded so strange in my mind. I'd always been Mello. Who is Mihael? Why did that sound so familiar, yet so strange? There was an unpleasant memory tugging at the back of my mind.

Snyder just gave me a knowing smirk and walked away. I almost threw my chocolate bar at him, but I needed it to calm my nerves.

__-_Flashback_-__

"There is a possibility…" Mr Wammy said, regarding me over the edge of his newspaper. I was in his office, seated in a big straight-backed chair, a newly named recruit in Wammy's House, barely eight years old and already one of the top candidates. Roger, Mr Wammy's friend, was there too, standing over Wammy's shoulder. They were discussing something about me, and they seemed agitated.

"Yes, yes, big possibility," Roger said, worriedly. He looked at me then from behind his glasses and asked, "What is your alias again?"

"Nea—Mello, sir," I answered, cringing at the name. I was not yet used to it.

"Mello," Roger echoed, looking back at the newspaper in Mr Wammy's hands. "Tell me, Mello, you know nothing of your past, correct?"

"Not until the institution took me in, sir."

"H'm." Mr Wammy scanned the paper and then folded it and placed it on the desk, turned it around and pushed it to me. "Listen carefully, Mello. There was a murder in Winchester about a year or so ago." The newspaper headline said as much. "A young couple was found dead in their house, one incident in a long a series of similar murders and house raids at the time. This particular couple was native of Russia and just moved to England on business. They were new to the place when the crime was committed and no one really knew them. Their murderers were apprehended and put behind bars soon after and the case was closed."

I looked back at him blankly and patiently, carefully taking in everything he said. I thought it was another test of my deductive skills.

"But recently, a relative of this couple from called the police to enquire of a particular child," Mr Wammy continued, indicating the paper in front of me. "The reports had mentioned the death of the couple, but nothing of their child. Apparently, they had a young son with them, but the police had found no trace of there ever being anyone else living in the house with them, and so assumed that the couple was childless. In fact, it was difficult to get any clues at all: the house was half burned to the ground, charring the bodies so badly it was difficult to identify them at first. The police investigated into the matter, and it turns out the criminals themselves knew nothing of a child. They had simply raided the house, murdered the man and his wife and fled. They must have burned the house down to get rid of any clues. As for the child himself, there was no trace left of him."

"Perhaps the child was somewhere else at the time, at school maybe?" I suggested.

"That's the next step the police took up in investigation," Roger said, nodding approvingly. "But still they came up with nothing. No school in England had any new child admitted ever since the couple had arrived in England. They did find some charred children's books among what survived of the deceased couple's belongings."

"Their son was homeschooled, then?" I said.

"Yes, that much was established," Mr Wammy said. "But it's been almost a year since and still no new leads on where this child might have gone."

"Now, Mello," Roger then said, fixing me with a sad yet curious stare. "Where do you think this child might be?"

I thought about it. "There are some unknown variables in the problem. How old the child was, for one thing."

"The relative mentioned that the son was about seven years old when they had left for England," Mr Wammy said, watching me carefully.

I swung my legs under the chair. I was small for an eight-year-old; my feet didn't reach the floor. "Well, then," I replied thoughtfully. "The child was obviously not home when the murder occurred, and on returning, if indeed he ever did, he discovered that he was homeless and an orphan and, in blind confusion, ran away from there. He's either long dead by now, or was found and is living under someone else's care, an orphanage, perhaps. By this time, if he were still alive, he'd be around my age. There's no telling where he might have wound up without further information."

"The police have enquired at every orphanage that has even the slightest possibility of having taken him in," Mr Wammy said. "They haven't found anyone who had been taken in around the time of the murder."

"Then he's either living under the care of some family who decided to take him in," I said.

"Missing posters were put up and no one could give any information," Roger supplied. "It was like the child never existed."

"What if he were to take on a new life, with a new identity?" Mr Wammy asked.

I paused, considering. "That's hardly likely, given the circumstances. He's most likely dead. But on the off chance he is given another identity, he would be living with a tremendous burden of his past."

"And if the shock of his discovery was too much to handle?"

"He would probably be traumatized to the extent of repression of his memories as a defense mechanism. He would be living without memory of any of this happening to him. That is, of course, if he still is alive, which I doubt, given the fact that no one seems to have taken him in."

Roger glanced at his friend. "Smart lad," he observed.

Mr Wammy nodded sadly. "One of the best we have."

"In that case, it wouldn't be wise to jeopardize his future with needless background baggage?"

"No, of course not," Mr Wammy said. He looked at me and smiled a small sad smile. "He's fine as he is."

I beamed. Bright as I was, I was clueless.

Roger sat down and leaned forward. "According to the relative in Russia, the missing child's name is…was Mihael."

I looked at him, wondering why he was mentioning this.

Roger sighed. "Mello, we trust your deductions of this case to be accurate and true. As of now, Mihael is dead."


	3. Among These Ashes

**_-Chapter III-_**

**_-Among These Ashes-_**

I hadn't paid enough attention to that conversation in Mr Wammy's office, though it remained with me for years, at the back of my mind, a shadow within shadows. Despite my superior intelligence, I really had been a clueless child back then. I took the experience as a test and nothing more. I had no clue I had just narrated my own story.

Now, though, with that name thrown back at me by one as detestable as Snyder, I began to realize what a horrible tragedy I really was.

Russian, Snyder had said. Mihael. What were the odds of this being the same Mihael as that of the case of the missing child of that murdered Russian couple nearly twelve years ago? I refused to believe any of it. I tried reasoning with myself: there are thousands of Mihaels. It's a common Russian name. But still, the fact that Mr Wammy and Roger had me solve that case made me wonder: was there more to that test than just to measure how far I'd progressed? Did they keep me from the truth they'd discovered about me to protect me from myself?

That was very, very likely, now I ache to think of it.

Chief Yagami flipped open the Notebook of Death and scribbled furiously. "I've written your first name down," he said, his eyes glinting menacingly. "All that's left is to write your family name. It'll be over in seconds."

_My family name. _I had lost my smirk. Mihael Kheel. There was no denying it now. That _is_ my name; death god eyes don't lie. I knew right then that he had made the deal for the eyes. It was just like what Snyder said.

I'm Mihael Kheel. I'm that lost boy born of tragedy all those years ago, living a lie—

_No_.

I'm Mello. I've always been Mello. It's like what Roger had said to me long ago: Mihael is dead. He is no more. He died the day Mello was born, died the day his parents were killed, murdered.

Suddenly, I felt a great emptiness open up within me. It was so intense I almost set the bomb off right then. But I didn't have time to be lost; I couldn't feel so disoriented when in the middle of life-threatening situations. I tried convincing myself: it doesn't matter. Your past doesn't matter. What matters is _now. _Surviving now and winning for the future. That's what it has been like all along. Mihael is dead; he doesn't matter.

Things happened quickly after that. I managed to keep half my mind to get out alive, but just barely. The half of my mind that was still functioning decided to set the bomb off.

Horrific moments later, I lay sprawled out on the ground, badly burnt and dying, not far from the remains of the devastated hideout. Every nerve felt like it was on fire. I was blinded in my left eye. I could hear what's left of the Japanese task force picking themselves off the ruins and begin moving out, calling for backup and looking out for me.

_I have to get out of here._

Fumbling, half-conscious and already blacking out, I crawled over and pulled out a cell phone from the pocket of a dead mafia member. I think it was Snyder; I couldn't really see. Everything was a blur of smoke and pain. Dazed beyond consciousness, I started hitting the buttons furiously for someone, anyone. I couldn't think. I was acting on reflex, punching in the number of the only person I bothered keeping contact with, the only number that surfaced to my dimming consciousness. I hit the dial button. After a series of rings, it picked up.

"Who the hell is this?" a muffled voice asked.

"Help me," I whispered.

"Okay, really, is this a crank call? I can track this number down and beat you up, you know?" the voice said.

"Damn you, Doormat," I managed to breathe, my voice trembling with pain. As I finally blacked out and the cell fell from my hand, I didn't hear the voice reply: "Holy… Mello, is that you? Where are you? Mello? Answer, dammit! Oh god. Uh, hold on. I'm tracking you right now."


	4. Burn Away These Memories

**_-Chapter IV-_**

**_-Wash Away These Memories-_**

__-_-Flashback_-_-_

_It was so dark. I stepped into the house, wondering why the door was left ajar. The power was cut off. I couldn't see anything. They haven't gone out looking for me, have they? They told me to never wander too far, but I was a restless kid, always running after the pigeons and roaming the backstreets. I didn't notice it had gotten so late._

_I stepped into the kitchen cautiously and lit a candle, stuffing the box of matches into my pocket. It was so quiet in the house. It was never this quiet. Holding up the light, I walked around slowly. "Mother?" I called out. "Father?"_

_There was an odd rusty smell, from memories of scraped knees and of biting my tongue, of nosebleeds. It was the smell of blood. The hair on my arms tingled with apprehension._

_I called for my parents louder, more desperately. No answer. Breathing heavily and trying not to choke on the smell, I entered the hall, trying to not bump against anything in the dark. _

_Suddenly, I tripped on something and fell bodily to the floor. The candle flickered and went out. I fumbled in the dark for the candle and touched something warm and wet on the floor, spread out all around me, coating my hands like oil. Slowly and slightly trembling, I brought my hand up to my face. The smell of blood grew stronger. I resisted the urge to taste it. Instead, I desperately resumed my search of the candle. Then, extremely frightened at this point, I just took the box of matches out and lit one. In that short span of its flame, I saw before me a sight I would forever try hard to forget._

_My mother, and my father, sprawled out on the floor, their throats slit open and stabbed multiple times. All around me was stained with blood. There was so much blood. _

_I let out the scream of my life and dropped the matchstick. It went out immediately. In the darkness, I started bawling my eyes and heart out, a terrified little child in the dark and with the dead. From where I was kneeling in the pool of my parents' blood, I trembled and screamed and screamed and screamed. _

_When I had screamed my throat raw, I tried lighting another match. My hands were shaking so badly, I couldn't get it to light. I could still smell death all around me; this had to be a nightmare. The worst nightmare of my life. When the match was finally lit, I gazed upon the horrible sight on the floor with tear-blurred eyes. I felt another stab of immense grief and pain. Suddenly, something left intact at the back of my shattered young mind made a decision. _

_I stood up suddenly and threw the flaming match stick at the sofa. It fell softly and ignited the fabric around it. In moments, the sofa was burning brightly enough to light up the room dimly. I stood, strangely quiet, breathing hard, staring, my tear-stained face hardened. The place was practically stripped bare of everything but the few unmovable furniture we had. The windows were smashed; we were robbed clean. I lit another match and threw it beside the first. The fire was blazing now. I could feel the heat against my skin. I lit another match and threw it across the room, and then another and another until the entire room was ablaze. _

_I didn't even look back at the bodies on the floor as I ran out the door, didn't look back at the house on fire. I ran hard through the town, the memory of what transpired already evaporating from my mind. The pain was furiously pounding in my head, throughout my system with my blood running through my body. But even at a young age, my willpower was already strongly developed. I pushed it all back into my unconscious, exiling them into the shadowy corners of my mind. I kept running till I reached the lake I frequented during the day, and I jumped in. The cold water washed every trace of blood and memory from my body. _

_Fifteen minutes later, I walked shivering through the streets of Winchester at midnight, a nameless, shattered, orphan child. I walked up to the nearest house, huddled under the shade at the top of its porch steps, and cried…_

I screamed and opened my eyes, seeing nothing but blinding white light. My body arched up in sheer pain.

"Whoa!" a voice said, and I felt myself being restrained. "Easy there, Mello. They're still out there looking for you. Do you want them to find you? Crissakes."

I writhed where I lay on the ground, the white light dimming away. Before the darkness came and took over my sight, I saw his face, older and yet unchanged, looming over me. Matt looked dead-worried, but he spoke with forced calm and humor: "Tried to kill yourself again? Don't worry. Doormat's here for ya."

Doormat. Matt's Wammy nickname. Always being pushed around. Submissive, dead loyal Doormat.

"Mello?" he said again, the worry coming through his façade; the smell of cigarettes riding his breath assaulted my tortured senses.

"Mihael," I automatically corrected, drifting into nothingness. "My name's…Mihael."

**_-_-The End!-_-_**

**A/N: **Ah, finally, the end. Did you understand any of that? It's pretty weird, I know, and there're probably more holes in this plot than a slice of perforated Swiss cheese, but it was fun to write. And tiring. Five hours straight, man; Five-hours-_straight!_ Hope you enjoyed it anyway :


End file.
